Although you are practically the symbol of Big Organic, at the end of the day, as much as I don’t want to, I like your stores and the conveniences they provide me.

You see, I like chicken, and while I can appreciate that a chicken has wings, and thighs, and legs, it’s their supple breasts that I desire most in my midweek meals, and as that’s not a cut that’s easy to get from my local farmers without breaking the chickens down myself, I often pick up a breast or two on my visits to your store.

I mention it because while I can appreciate the devotion your meat department shows to their gloves as the workers discard them so sparingly, when they handle the raw meats I will purchasing with their plastic covered hands, type the code into the scales with those same hands, and then proceed to wrap my purchase in butchers paper without having ever removed them, what I get in my palm as we finalize our transaction is a neatly wrapped, meat-juice slathered, package.

And while you’re at it, will you please stop your high-n-mighty we-re-so-superior meat department from sniffing with contempt when a 20-year customer (way back to Greenville Ave days) comes to the counter for a single pound of chicken since the prewrapped packages are always 50-100% bigger? No, I don’t want two pounds of chicken. I want one pound of chicken.

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God in a Cup: The Obsessive Quest for the Perfect Coffee
From the mountains of Panama and Ethiopia, to the urban-jungles of Portland and Chicago, journalist Michaele Weissman takes us behind the scenes for a look at the world of third-wave specialty coffee. How did we get to Starbucks, and where we go from here?